


The Tool Box

by quelling



Series: Tool Box series [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quelling/pseuds/quelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a mystery growing in Stiles' very own backyard.</p>
<p>(or The One Where Derek Decides To Be a Grown Up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tool Box

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone that's enjoyed this series enjoys this final part as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It was Monday, and Stiles got home from after school activities a little earlier than usual, especially on a day he was supposed to have lacrosse practice. Since most of the team was still suffering from varying degrees of injuries after the last, brutal game (except of course the werewolves who were all perfectly healthy though pretending so as not to arouse suspicion), Finstock had let them leave early. He pulled his Jeep into the driveway and got out to hear a couple of loud pounding noises from the backyard - the sound of a hammer meeting a nail solidly several times.

Hmm. He left his backpack on the seat and decided to investigate what his dad was building before going inside. His father used to build things all the time, back when his mother was still alive -- a porch swing, a small bookcase. Usually weekend projects that ended up being gifts for his wife, but that had stopped once she was gone. Stiles actually couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his dad doing any kind of construction or carpentry, so he was intensely curious when he turned the corner on the house. His father was sitting on the back porch steps, a glass of iced tea in hand, and in a crisp uniform. He didn't look the least bit sweaty or dirty, but clearly something was being built because there was a section dug out of the grass in an octagonal shape, framed out with two-by-fours.

Stiles lifted a brow. "I thought I heard you hammering." He looked around for his Dad's tool box, but it was nowhere in sight.

The Sheriff merely shrugged before draining his glass. "I've got time before my shift. Let's go grab some dinner."

Stiles asked several more times during their meal about the project in the backyard, but his dad refused to discuss it, so he finally let the matter drop.

The next day after school, Stiles immediately got out of his Jeep and went around to the back of their house, but no one was around. He figured his dad was at work, but apparently progress had been made earlier in the day because there as cement standing in the frame. Stiles squatted down, poking lightly at one spot, and it was on its way to hardening. He went inside, did his homework and made a solitary dinner, but he was itching to graffiti that concrete. 

Just before dark, he went out the back door, marched over to the setting cement and put his handprint in it for posterity. He grinned at his handiwork and wished he'd brought out his cell phone for a photo. Since it was getting dark, he decided to return before school and snap a picture.

The next morning, still in pajamas, he padded outside, phone in hand, camera mode ready. Beside his handprint there was a paw print pressed into the gray, now-solid mix. He looked around, as if expecting Scott or one of the other betas to pop out and tease him, but he was apparently alone. He took a couple of photos, bemused and amused at the same time before going back inside to get ready for school.

It was now habit to head straight to the backyard after school. Sometimes his dad was home and sometimes his dad was working at the station, but there was always progress. It was clearly a gazebo, a rather large, fancy one from what he could tell, and he wondered if his father was building it as a memorial to his late wife. That would explain why he didn't want to talk about it at least.

Still, Stiles would have liked to help him, even just to saw lumber, but he never saw any laying around. In fact, he never saw any tools or materials. It was as if the building was growing from the ground without any help. Of course, Stiles knew better, but it was all very mysterious. He decided to look in the garage for his father's toolbox, but it wasn't there. He looked throughout their entire house, and couldn't find it anywhere. Stiles remembered it well too - a dented metal toolbox, the blue paint scratched and the handle made of worn, soft leather.

Tomorrow was Friday, and Stiles was thinking it might be a good day to fake an illness. That way he could stay home and nose around while his Dad finished the project. Because based on the quick progress thus far, and how little was left to do, it could conceivably be finished while he was at school. He couldn't explain it, not that he was going to try, but he _needed_ to see the labor behind the building, just once. Maybe he just needed to see his dad constructing something again, it had been so long. In any case, he set out to convince his dad that he had a horrible sore throat and accompanying cough. Sore throats were always a wise choice when feigning sick in his experience.

The Sheriff felt his forehead and frowned. "You do feel a little warm," he noted, and Stiles suppressed the urge to pump a victorious fist in the air. "All right, stay home. I'll call the school before I head out," his Dad sighed, giving him a quick hug.

"I thought you were off today?" Stiles asked.

"I am, but I have an appointment. I'll be back in a couple of hours." His father gave him a firm look. "But I expect you to rest and get better. Don't spend the day playing video games. And don't leave the house," he instructed.

Stiles agreed easily. The only thing he was interested in was watching the backyard, and that he could do from his bed, and if his Dad was leaving, nothing was going to happen on the gazebo anyway. He trudged to the bathroom after telling his dad goodbye, and made sure to open his curtains wide before stretching back out on his bed. The sun coming up warmed his comforter, and lulled him back to sleep. When he awoke, it was lunchtime and he heard his Dad talking on the phone downstairs. He rushed to the window, looking out, but as expected nothing had been added to the construction. 

He was coming down the stairs when he paused to eavesdrop. "Nah, I just think it's a little sore throat. He's not burning up or anything -- just warmer than usual. He was sleeping soundly when I checked on him."

A pause.

"Well, you could finish today, but I'm not explaining it for you if you do. Up to you."

Stiles' brow furrowed, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

He heard his father gruffly chuckle. "Yeah, well, you sound a lot more worried than this calls for. All I'm saying is that if you drop by, you use the front door. I think I've made my rules clear."

After bidding the caller farewell, the Sheriff must have put his cell phone away because by the time Stiles came around the corner of the kitchen door, his Dad was placing two white styrofoam trays from the diner onto the kitchen table. He placed the presumably empty brown bag they came in onto the counter. "You're up! I was gonna let you sleep. Best thing when you're sick," he commented. "Since you're awake, might as well eat while it's hot. Got roast beef from the diner."

Stiles moved to their silverware drawer and retrieved forks for both of them and a couple of paper napkins. "Who were you talking to on the phone?"

The Sheriff's eyes jerked up to Stiles, and it looked as if a smirk was teasing the edges of his mouth. "What have I told you about listening in on my calls?"

Stiles tilted his chin up, but just a little defiantly. He loved and respected his dad, even if they butted heads from time to time. "It didn't sound like official business."

The Sheriff chuckled in reply. "Eat up, son. I imagine you'll know soon enough."

Stiles' narrowed his eyes on the older man, but let the matter drop. He tucked into his lunch instead, but not before moving the salt shaker out of his father's reach.

They were just finishing their meal when a knock sounded on the front door. The Sheriff didn't look at all surprised; in fact, the smirk from earlier finally blossomed fully on his face. "I'd have bet money," he murmured, standing to answer it, but Stiles was already on his feet. He had on socks, and managed to slide across their tiled foyer to stop smoothly in front of the door before opening it. The Sheriff had moved to lean on the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest.

Derek Hale stood on their front porch, looking, well, nervous. Stiles' eyes widened. "What are _you_ doing here?" he squeaked, almost rudely.

"I imagine he's coming to check on you, son. Seeing as you're sick and all," his father replied knowingly from behind him.

Stiles' eyes flashed to his father and back to Derek. "Wait, this is who you were on the phone with?"

"Your welcome is charming, I'm sure. Gonna let me in?" Derek drawled, hands shoved into his leather jacket's pockets. He looked nothing short of vulnerable.

Stiles' brain was firing on all cylinders and he still couldn't catch up. "Umm, urr, well, you know I'm not sure - I mean, my dad's the Sheriff and last I checked, he'd arrested you once and I don't think...," he trailed off. It's not as if he was ashamed he knew Derek. He wasn't even ashamed he kind of, well, _liked_ Derek, but there was the whole werewolf secret going on. 

It was like Stiles had been leading two lives -- normal teenage boy to a single parent Dad by day, and human member to a wolf pack by night and never the twain should meet and all that.

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat. "Let him in, Stiles. Even I know it's dangerous to leave a worried werewolf on the front porch. Besides, I brought him home lunch too," he interceded.

Stiles' eyes went wider if possible, and he jerked his head between the two older men as if he were watching a super speed tennis match. One in which he'd seriously dropped the ball. "What the fu-- I mean hell -- what the hell is going on?" he finally managed to ask, even as he dumbly stepped back out of the way to allow Derek entrance.

Derek flashed a grateful look at the Sheriff before leaning closer to Stiles, taking a deep breath near his shoulder. Stiles protested with a soft noise and jerked back, and Derek arched a dark brow at him. He said nothing though, entering the house as if his coming in the front door instead of Stiles' bedroom window was perfectly normal. "Thanks for lunch, Sir," the werewolf spoke directly to the Sheriff.

Stiles watched as his Dad nodded, patted Derek on the shoulder and guided him to the kitchen table. He retrieved another white styrofoam tray from the bag on the counter and glanced over his shoulder at his son. "Are you going to just stand there or get him something to eat with?"

Derek bit back a chuckle at the expression on Stiles' face as the teenager moved like a zombie toward the drawer, dropping a fork loudly on the table and then stepping back two spaces. Deciding that wasn't enough, Stiles stepped back another couple, putting him in the kitchen doorway. "I'm hallucinating, right? Or else this is the Twilight Zone?" He'd watched re-runs of the show with his mom when he was little. He knew all about the Twilight Zone thank you very much and he was pretty sure he was living it right now.

"You think you're in the Twilight Zone?" the Sheriff answered, a pragmatic gaze on Stiles. "How do you think I felt when I discovered that not only do werewolves exist, but I have a pack of them in my town? Worse, my son runs with them?"

Derek said nothing, instead eating his very delicious lunch. 

Stiles felt a pang of guilt, but ignored it. Instead, he had begun waving a finger between the the pair of them. "You're in cahoots. When? How?"

"Apparently when Derek decided to be an adult, and come talk to me," his Dad replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Even though he wasn't in uniform, the man still looked imposing. "When were you going to get around to it?" He sounded slightly accusing and Stiles' coughed and looked away.

"Look, I was trying to protect you," Stiles began, but his father cut him off.

"Not your job, son. That's my job," his father disagreed, pointing at his own chest. "I'm going to let you two talk. I'll be in the den." He turned stern eyes on Derek. "Rules."

Derek gave the older man a solemn nod. "Yes, sir."

Stiles watched the exchange transfixed, even as he sank into the kitchen chair across from Derek's. "You told my father about the pack?!" he hissed as soon as the man left the room.

"It was time," Derek answered calmly.

"No. No way. No way do you get to decide that," Stiles shook his head at him. "You're putting him in danger!"

Derek wiped his mouth and put his fork down. "He has the protection of my pack. He has the knowledge of a lot more variables now in investigating crime in his own town. And he had the right to know." Derek's gaze dared Stiles to argue.

"Since when?!" Stiles demanded.

"Since I'm dating his son," Derek shot back.

Stiles floundered at that, unable to find words. He simply made incoherent noises and waved his hands at Derek for a several long minutes before Derek reached out and wrapped his fingers around one of Stiles'. "By the way, you're not sick at all." 

Stiles turned bright red. "I hate werewolves." Still, points to Derek for not snitching on him to his father.

Derek only laughed. "No, you don't. So why did you fake a sore throat today?"

Stiles shrugged, jumping up to take Derek's not empty tray and toss it in the trash. He was just about to start washing all the eating utensils when he whirled back around. "You! You're the one building in our backyard!"

Derek smiled and shrugged. Stiles hated that it made his breath catch, but he wasn't used to Derek smiling yet. Not so easily and not just for him. "I told him everything, Stiles. Did you think he was going to let me date you without a whole lot of rules, given our age difference?"

Stiles spluttered at him again, but this time he found words to accompany the hand gestures. "What? Date? That? Gazebo? Us? Like Victorian times? We're not -- I mean. What the fuck?"

Derek stood, walking over and opening his arms. He made sure Stiles was willing before pulling him into an embrace. "You're jailbait, remember? He said I could see you as long as we kept things -- proper, until you're eighteen. I'm not allowed to come in through your window. I'm not even allowed in your room. No dates, unless the whole pack is with us. No hands below the waist." Stiles made a very unmanly, and greatly embarrassed squeak at that.

"I am allowed to be alone with you in that gazebo," Derek went on, giving Stiles a squeeze. "Besides, you're the one that told me I had to date you. And you didn't want to wait. Neither did I, to tell you the truth. Besides, I think you compared yourself to a hammer waiting on my attention?"

Stiles hit him on the back, not hard enough to hurt (Derek was a werewolf after all), but hard enough to show his displeasure. "That's not precisely what I said."

"Close enough," Derek teased him. 

"This is so embarrassing," Stiles protested, but it sounded weak. Derek was nuzzling under his ear, nibbling a little on the lobe before licking at the skin lightly underneath. He trailed his mouth along Stiles' jaw before finally finding his mouth. He kissed him hungrily, but his hands didn't stray from Stiles' waist.

"How in the world did you come up with a gazebo?" Stiles finally asked breathlessly. "I mean, it's romantic and all, but not something I really think you'd come up with. No offense."

"That was Lydia's idea," Derek grinned, and then he was kissing Stiles again. 

Stiles couldn't summon any further protests. After all, he was getting exactly what he wanted.

 

~ Fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading this series. It began as drabbles on tumblr, but I'd like to think grew into a nice, comprehensive tale. I owe counterintutivefangirl a huge thanks for the initial trope prompts that started it all and became the first few parts of the series. Also thanks to Imbolc for years of friendship and most currently cheerleading me to write, write, write! Thanks to all that have commented. And thanks to anyone that has left kudos. I'm thankful, okay? <3


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